New Beginnings. Fern Britton

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СКАЧАТЬ Now her attention had turned from Christie to the groom, who was standing at his seat in front of the altar, talking to the best man, then turning towards the church door, expectant and nervous.

       ‘I wish I could help him too,’ Mel confided in a whisper. ‘I wonder if he knows what he’s letting himself in for. I was at the hen do and there was no stone unturned . . . if you know what I mean! Here she comes. The blushing bride – with plenty to blush about.’

       A shaft of sunlight suddenly lit the arched doorway and in stepped the bride on the arm of her proud father.

       ‘Bet she’s got no knickers on under that dress,’ Mel whispered. ‘It’s her trademark.’

       Nick caught Christie’s eye over the trembling ostrich feather. He was smiling.

       ‘Mel! Sssh.’ Christie stifled the urge to gag her sister and burst out laughing.

       ‘Another good man bites the dust,’ Mel insisted. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’

       And with that the organ went into a hosanna of tumbling chords. The groom turned for his first glimpse of his bride, and as their eyes locked, he blushed rather sweetly. She, on the other hand, was grinning like a Cheshire cat. She continued her journey down the aisle, and their mutual gaze never wavered until they were duly joined in holy matrimony.

      The reception in a nearby hotel was long and dull. The photos had taken for ever and the food as long again to make an appearance. Christie’s feet were aching. She sat in a quiet corner of the ballroom and looked at her watch. When would be the right moment to slip away without being rude? She hoped she could make her excuses before the disco hell began. She spotted Mel and beckoned her over. ‘Mel, I’ve got to go in a minute. I have to make an early start on a piece I’m writing for the News. It has to be in on Monday and—’

       ‘Oh, please stay a bit longer, you party pooper. You know Mum’ll grill me tomorrow. “Who did Christine talk to?” “Did she dance with anyone nice?” “What are we going to do with her?” ’ Mel impersonated her mother’s elocuted voice perfectly. Christie giggled but still kissed her sister goodbye and, with promises of phone calls and a takeaway during the week, slipped into the gathering gloom of the car park.

       As she fumbled for her keys, she dropped her new handbag, spilling its contents onto the tarmac. Crouching to pick them up, she was aware of another person bending to help her. She turned and looked straight into the eyes of the man she had met in the church: Nick Lynch.

       ‘Hello, again. Your sister tried to introduce us before the service and I completely failed to chat you up. I’m Nick.’

       ‘Thank God you didn’t. I’d have been mortified. I’m so sorry.’ She picked up her purse and her keys, while he grabbed her makeup bag. ‘I’m Christie. Please ignore Mel. She’s quite mad and the doctors don’t often allow her out, but you know how lax security can be!’

       They both laughed and then, in the silence that followed, Christie took in his face. Nice. Not too good-looking but pleasant with wide blue eyes, brown curly hair, broad cheeks and a slight dimple in his chin. He was a couple of inches taller than her and stockily built, but maybe that was his morning suit.

       And he looked at her too. Later he would tell everyone it was love at first sight but in truth, even though he fought a strong compulsion to kiss her there and then, it took a few walks in the park, cups of coffee and dinners with friends for them to be absolutely certain that they were meant to be together.

      Chapter 4

      ‘Julia’s ready for you. Follow me.’

      Christie stood up, straightened her jacket and followed Julia’s PA, who had introduced herself as Lily Watson-Fellows – ‘Call me Lily’ – out of the plush reception area. They left behind the frenetic atmosphere created by two receptionists, who were buzzing about, answering phones and furiously typing, and entered the silence of a long corridor. The first door on the right was labelled ‘Lenny Chow’. Inside the small, no-frills office, lined with shelves crowded with bulging files, a shirt-sleeved Chinese man of about forty was tapping at a calculator and making notes on his screen.

      ‘That’s Lenny, our accountant,’ Lily said, in passing. ‘He’s indispensable and sorts out the money side of things for the agency.’

      Lenny looked up and smiled at Christie through his wire-framed glasses. ‘Hallo.’

      ‘Hallo,’ she replied, taking in his open, happy expression and his slicked-back black hair. This was a face that said integrity and duty, she thought. However, she couldn’t but notice his nails were bitten to the quick.

      ‘Ciao, Mr Chow.’ Lily laughed.

      Christie transferred her attention to the framed glossy photographs of White Management clients that hung on the walls. Most of them were household names, actors and presenters, often in the company of a perfectly groomed and always beaming Julia Keen – a hand on a shoulder, sharing a joke, deep in conversation – clearly a woman with a wardrobe, not to mention a roll-call of A-list talent. After passing Lily’s cupboard of an office, Christie was shown into an elegant white room with a plush air-force-blue carpet and two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a spectacular view across the glittering Thames to beyond the London Eye. On the other two there were more photos, framed front covers of Broadcast and Stage & TV Today and an in-depth profile of Julia from the Observer.

      ‘Sit down, darling.’ Julia gestured at the black leather sofa opposite a low, round, glass coffee-table where one white orchid arched in solitary splendour. ‘Coffee?’

      When Lily had been dispatched to get caffè latte for Christie and water for Julia, the agent emerged from behind her preternaturally tidy desk. She was dressed as immaculately as the last time they had met, this time in a drop-waisted coffee-coloured jersey dress that spoke designer, though Christie had no idea which one. Her feet were encased in spike-heeled suede ankle boots and a short fur jacket was slung over her shoulders. Christie felt rather understated in her jeans with last year’s black jacket over a plain white shirt. Julia brought with her the distinctive scent of Prada Cuir Ambre – smoky leather and scary.

      ‘Now, what can we do with you, I wonder,’ Julia spoke almost to herself.

      ‘That’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me.’ Christie refused to let herself feel intimidated. Whatever Julia had to say to her, she would hold her own.

      Julia gave a brusque laugh to show she’d heard, but she was obviously more preoccupied by her own thought processes. ‘You know,’ she began tentatively, ‘I think you’ve got real potential as a live on-air presenter. Your appearance on Tart Talk was very well judged. As you gained confidence, the audience responded well to you. I liked that.’ She was focused on the nail of her left index finger, which she was slowly stroking with her right thumb. ‘You’re intelligent and express yourself well. That’s important.’

      ‘Thank you.’ High praise indeed.

      Julia shifted her gaze to Christie. ‘And you look good too. The camera likes you and that’s crucial in this business. And you’re not the average female presenter. A young widow. Two children. Juggling the work-life balance.’

      Christie СКАЧАТЬ